Thursday, April 30, 2015

The way a grim old hobgoblin with his small hawkish pushcart shuffle rambling past me—dayafter day, and its little silver grailsin rows goingjangling—enchanted andglinting in daylight so brightas to widelyoutshine—and loudly outblast—any shamefaced ambitionhe may have been havingto peddle anyice cream—to a fully grown man.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

With each passing morning—more and more kelly green trumpets of leaves—bulge from little branches,obstructingto snatchhis destined path awayeven as they instruct him—The last thing the world needs is another poem like the oneyou're envisioning!The impossible—actually becomespossible all the damn time;it's just that it only—becomesactualevery—once in a while.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

On the long hoary streetside—a young-ish man,thin and lovelystooped and crying feebly overnot!—the wasted coagulum of pinkwhite ice cream puddlingthere before his lustystubborn feet—but rather,without even knowing it—his own growing clot of confusion regardingenjoyment!—which seems as though it oughtto continually ooze inat all timesfrom all places—withtrue joy—and the sweet cold brave freedom begottenwhen and whereverit pours forthfrom the only

Monday, April 27, 2015

We're all pretty quick to think we move—fast,but we'restill so shame-fully slow with words—wherever his broken chords are concerned;because—it's just there,in the vast spaces where even syllables are not—that's where tender nameless—feeling is.

Friday, April 24, 2015

It is said—the most generous and philanthropic of bards—knows notonly how to inhabitdeeply—his own stubborn and unique brand of poetry,but also—how difficult it can be to die selfishlyat just the right time—as a sign onto you;having seen and heardand tasted—and imbibedso much of the raw lifeflowing in from outside—that he's certainthat true putrid selfishness—is necessaryfor success.And furthermore—that deathtakes a whole lot of practicepractically nightly; that is—if oneis actuallyhoping he might—continue to livelong enough to tell you guys all about it—over eggs in the morning.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

When-and on what-ever platformyou happen to be standing when you start to hear that nasally sweet band brand ofgentle jazz—come nosingnot exactly at—but more sort ofindirectly towards you,from no source that's discernible,and certainly—with no explanation whatsoever;try not to panic.And realizethat there is reallyonly one little decision to make (albeit over and over again)—to make friendswith it. Not permanent-ly or for ever but just—this one time. Just this very minute. And if you can do thatfor a second,no matter which—train you get on; thencongratulationsmy friend—you can get off itwhenever you feel like—and tell them allabout Disneyland.

Monday, April 20, 2015

In a rainy night dream,there he was—finally not thinkingeven about his breathing—or moreprecisely, hisnot really needing to—kicking wondrously legless!—and speeding soweightless and freeand not even heeding the ambient temperature or direction—together with schools of darkheadless, and yet incredibly familiar fishes—in consort—a perfect symphony, a great big family!whose members don't everseem to need to even speak to one another!except—curiously,not moving through any comparably abstract or magicaloceans of poetically cloudsilver water,but rather—a solution far thicker and more salineand—apparently of far,far greater significance—to his seemingly in-escap-able waking identity—namely, yellow mustard.

Friday, April 17, 2015

It's like—the harder one triesto squintto lookand pin down this or that giant bodymore significantly,the more one becomes—dizzydistractedfaint and confounded by—all those strange little paisley patternsforming swellingcongregatingpeeling-apartand then marchingacross the squelchy undersidesurface of each of one's eyeballs—

but always disappearing before one can everdare to attend—and so become influenced by—even a single one of them fully;like waves on water—rather unimaginableto actually grab hold ofand describe as anything significantapart from the whole vesselbecause—there's reallyno story!That is—no birth, and certainly no death what-soever.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Concocting quite a thoroughmanual in her mind as she goes rovingsilent, needle-shaped,quite conscientiously over and through the teeming neighborhood;an old brown beagle, waterfall-eyed,could not even pauseto noticeif she needed to—the palest of green things jutting from branchesor the wan way a high white disc bleaches-away thin clouds to make dirty blue—busy! as she is—mixing fecund sniffsof piss-sticky concreteand mudto—somehow create her ownbrilliant new theses—ofrobin's egg and seafoam.

Monday, April 13, 2015

too new and strange—to comprehend intellectuallywill swell to warmthe spacebehind of the eyes of—not only each poet—but every kind-ly, upright and polite-hearted doctorwho has ever rightlytold himthat there's nothing especially—wrong with his insides;

not of fearor relief or self-righteous indignation,but simply—of failure,unfurling in slow motionbehind the subdued and melancholylow browsof both of them—that is, of sheerunwillingness, deepin the core of each man,to dare under-take—whathe can't understand.

somehow comprisedof such—an impossibly more etherealmaterial—than that rough reedystalk which had yielded itas to offer—even men,who rushafter rocksand never surrender—a new opportunity to onceagain lighten-upand become their own children.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Thoroughly bothered—by the prospectof sounding unable—to conjureany other colorbetter than plain red—the poetfeels he is left with littlerecourse—but to render himselfshamefullydeafas a cartoon lobster.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Backwhen we were kids—we didthe splits with-out ever stoppingfirst to consider whether or not we could;now—we're dads and moms with cleavage—and it's partly cloudy outside—and stocksare mixed—and then should? we be practicing some-thing called—intermittentfasting? and we just can't decide tobelieve it that none—again—none!of it feels any good.

Locked up tightinside every single—tiny drop of grey rainclinging to your windowpane—are lots and lots of—islands of completely empty space;but wait—that is not thestrange part—for silence,that greatand profoundlyimmeasurable thing—is somehow also circumscribing each of their boundless contentsentirely,though notin space—buttime. It's as if—sure as a thing likeeverlasting raincan yet get stuckin a few linesof poetry;infinity—stillleaves plenty of room—for eternity.

Sometimes, you just have to goperch yourselfanywhere you gotta!—to hang-and reign-over (maintaining your uprightness

by means only of those slightestupdrafts of self-control waftingup from below) a generous- and a wild-ly shit situation;—moreover!from that positionyou can legitimately say and mean it—Fine! If that's reallythe way they want to play it,I'll respond in kind-of a little while.

Dan Smart is a poet, writer, and musician who currently works as News Editor at online music magazine Tiny Mix Tapes, volunteer editor at nonprofit writing and tutoring center 826CHI, and producer/engineer at ECHO/NORMAL recording studio in Chicago, IL. He received his BA in Creative Writing from Illinois Wesleyan University in 2006, where he has since returned to guest-lecture on poetry on several occasions. Publications include The Los Angeles Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Legendary, Cease Cows Magazine, Red Fez, Hooligan Magazine, and poetry/criticism blog Structure And Surprise. His daily-poetry blog, Rhythm Is The Instrument, has been active since 2013 and presently contains over 1,900 works.